“Billing and cooing will wait. Let us go to your aunt now, Cora,” he answered, rising impatiently. CHAPTER XXXVI. “HOW WAS IT THAT LOVE DIED?” “Let us go to your aunt now, Cora,” repeated Frank impatiently, and though her anger blazed at his coldness, she dared not give rein to it lest she lose him forever. With a deep, quivering sigh she slipped her arm through his, and led him upstairs to the elegant suite of apartments where her aunt lay dying. In an exquisite apartment furnished with Oriental magnificence, and sweet with the breath of roses in golden jardinières, while a soft, pearly light was diffused over everything by burning wax lights, Mrs. Dalrymple lay faintly breathing on a low, white couch, wrapped in a rich, white cashmere gown, girdled at the waist by a golden cord, her long, luxuriant tresses floating loose in ebon blackness over the pillow. When Cora entered the room she led Frank Laurier straight to the couch, saying gently: “Are you asleep, Aunt Verna? Here is Frank come to see you.” At these words her eyes opened with a transient gleam of interest, and her white hand fluttered toward him while she murmured: “I am glad to see you, Frank. You were always one of my favorites.” He pressed her hand warmly, uttering words of deep sympathy as he sank into the chair the maid placed for him, then a slight pause ensued. Mrs. Dalrymple’s eyes rested on the pair sitting side by side, and she said, with gentle interest: “You have been gone a long time, Frank. Have you had many adventures?” “None but the burning of my ship in mid-ocean while returning,” he replied, causing Cora to exclaim: “Good heavens!” Then he remembered that his betrothed had told him the doctors said that something to take Mrs. Dalrymple’s thought from brooding on herself might prove most beneficial, so he continued: “You would find it quite a thrilling story if you were not too ill to listen to the telling.” She sighed softly. “I am a dying woman, Frank. The blight of weariness, of ennui, of heart loneliness, has fallen on my life, and I am fading from earth, yet I have still a little human interest left, and it will not tire me to listen to your story.” She had brightened perceptibly, this strange woman who lay there sinking into death, not of any vital trouble, but merely of morbid grief and despair that she could not quell. So Frank plunged into the story of the _Atlanta’s_ burning, and, seeing that her eyes rested on him with gentle interest, he told it in most eloquent fashion, dwelling at length on the beautiful girl he had rescued. The invalid’s eyes brightened with interest, while a faint pink crept into her waxen cheek, but presently Cora’s jealousy broke bounds, and she exclaimed sharply. “Pray tell us the name of this paragon of beauty--this bewitching combination of dark eyes, dimples, rosy cheeks, and golden hair!” A moment’s hesitation, and he answered frankly: “Miss Jessie Lyndon!” “Ah-h!”